


Witching Hour

by Clocks



Category: London Spy, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Angst, Drug Use, London, M/M, Modern AU, Terrorism, Unhappy Ending, Vague mentions of past anonymous sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 00:18:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5269418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clocks/pseuds/Clocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long night of clubbing, warehouse worker Erik meets brilliant young researcher Charles Xavier along Lambeth Bridge one quiet morning. Their budding romance almost seems like a perfect fairy tale, but after a lifetime of disappointments, Erik can’t quite shake the feeling that Charles isn't quite who he seems.</p><p>[Very loosely based on BBC series ‘London Spy’]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witching Hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sophia_Bee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/gifts).



> For Sophia_Bee, who prompted for 'death'. I hope you like your gift! I based this on some events in the first episode of 'London Spy' while taking a few liberties.
> 
> For the **'Choose Not To Warn'** tag, please scroll down to the footnote to avoid spoilers.
> 
> A huge thanks to my wonderful beta [xsilverdreamsx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xsilverdreamsx/pseuds/xsilverdreamsx).
> 
> Translation into Русский available: [Witching Hour](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4772180) by Пилар Тернера, AXEL F

It is that time of the night where Erik comes alive.

He spends his days at the warehouse, mindlessly scanning packages and sorting them by postal codes, earphones plugged in so he doesn’t have to hear Stryker loudly berating the other workers. When it’s time to knock off, he goes home to the one-bedroom in Peckham he shares with Armando, a postgraduate economics student from LSE. They would then share a takeaway and a chat, then Armando returns to his books and research while Erik showers and heads out, sometimes bumping into Armando’s boyfriend on his way out. He doesn’t tell Armando that the reason he leaves just in time to miss Alex is because he can’t bear to be witness to their domesticity and quiet intimacy, heads bowed together as they talk and laugh.

It’s a slow, burning ache that Erik does his best every night to forget.

The gay village at Vauxhall offer Erik a plethora of choices for temporary amnesia. There are the usual mainstream clubs like Fire and the Royal if he’s in the mood for tourists (or sometimes, even someone from his homeland) and there are the lesser-known seedier clubs he frequents, tucked away out of sight from anyone walking along Albert Embankment unless they know where to look. And Erik does, weaving past the dodgy dealers peddling GHB, ecstasy and a myriad of other drugs that have seen more than a few passed-out revellers carried out on ambulance stretchers in the wee hours of the morning. At 27, Erik has been around the block enough to avoid the common pitfalls of ODs and chemsex, and old enough to want something more permanent, more real. In the meantime, he’s happy enough to seek solace in anonymous pleasure, but not fatalistic enough to kill himself for it.

Tonight it is a lost cause. Erik doesn’t like the look of any of the men eyeing him up on the dancefloor, and he subtly edges away from a tall redhead who’s trying to grind up against him during a Weeknd song. He switches clubs as he gets bored, slipping into the bathroom every so often to pop one of the little white pills Emma had given him last week. The night passes in a haze, and at some point he finds himself outside in a back alley, heaving and dry-retching. He should have eaten something more substantial before he left, but Alex had been unexpectedly early so Erik had left after a few quick bites.

He stares up at the sky, his pulse racing, sweat dripping down his temples and into his sideburns. Instead of darkness, he’s greeted with the pale blue wash of dawn.

“Fuck.” His throat is ridiculously parched, which means he must be dehydrated as hell. He fumbles for his wallet, but there’s no cash and he’s too addled to remember if his pay is already in. He fishes out his phone instead, trudging away from the deep, muffled boom of the bass emanating from the club and only realising later that he has been drawn to one of the most familiar, comforting metal structures he’s familiar with: Lambeth Bridge.

First he tries calling Emma but it goes straight to voicemail. She has gotten into the habit of turning her phone off while she sleeps after too many late night/early morning calls from Erik, so he can’t quite blame her, although it’s frustrating. Next, he tries Armando, but his ringtone goes on and on with no answer. Erik tries not to think about him and Alex wrapped up in their happy little bubble together, too content with each other to go about seeking external stimuli.

Erik is thirsty. He’s tired. As he begins to come down, it hits him then that he’s never felt so alone. _Do something meaningful with your life_ , his mother told him before her death. Easy enough to say when she was never a mutant on a watchlist, overlooked by employers who did not want to pay the mutant registration levy (currently at £5400 annually, one of the highest in Europe). Admittedly, his juvenile records don’t help things as well: three counts of criminal damage, including what had happened to the car belonging to an anti-Semitic previous neighbour.

After the ninth unsuccessful call, Erik flings his phone at the pavement in a burst of fury, watching impassively as it shatters into pieces.

He takes a deep breath to calm himself, flushed with immediate regret. He rarely lets himself get out of control like this, giving in to his base emotions. He makes an upward motion with his right hand, and the metal parts of his phone flit up into the air like butterflies before landing neatly in his palm. A little soothed after stretching out his power, Erik kneels down to pick up the plastic and silicon components of his phone that are impervious to his summoning.

To his surprise, a pair of jogging feet passing him stop in their tracks, and someone is bending down to help him pick up the pieces, murmuring, “You all right?”

Erik blinks at the stranger in the grey tracksuit. Up close, the jogger has the most extraordinary blue eyes Erik has ever seen, coupled with cupid’s bow lips in a generally boyish face. Erik’s experienced eye pegs him at 23, 25 at the most. “I’m fine,” Erik says automatically, but maybe he’s wide-eyed and sweating too much because the jogger looks skeptical.

The man doesn’t say anything, only moves to fish something from his pocket. It’s one of those foldable water bottles that often dangle from the handlebars of the cyclists who flood the Embankment on weekends. “Here,” the jogger says, pressing it into Erik’s shaky hands. His eyes are kind, so kind. Erik can’t look away.

“Thanks.” Erik drinks greedily, all too conscious of the jogger’s eyes roving over him in concern. Once his thirst is slaked, Erik insists again, “I’m fine, really.”

The jogger doesn’t say anything, but he reaches out towards Erik’s face. For a moment Erik thinks this man is going to cup his cheek, but instead the jogger thumbs at a bead of sweat crawling down Erik’s temple. He stares at it curiously, then back at Erik.

They don’t say anything for a long while. The jogger finally rises to his feet and resumes his trek across Lambeth Bridge, heading for the more respectable side of the divide and leaving Erik behind still at a loss for words.

***

“You don’t even know his name.” Emma’s tone is a mix of scorn and incredulity. “Why are you mooning over this guy again?”

“I’m not _mooning_ ,” Erik growls. He hates that he can’t keep anything from her, that she dips in and out of his mind whenever she pleases (much like she does with the private pool she owns on the rooftop). Still, he doesn’t quite hate it enough to stay away from the luxurious, clean lines of her expensive Kensington penthouse, a complete inversion of the grubby but homey space he shares with Armando (and Alex). He’s sitting on her cream leather sofa now, lost in thought and turning over the curled-up water bottle in his hands again and again in contemplation. It’s irritating because Emma always assumes to know him better than himself, and the truth is that more often than not, she is right.

“Never moon, honey. It’s horribly unattractive.” Emma smirks at him in the mirror as she continues applying glittery white eyeshadow to her lids. She’s getting all dolled up for a night out with Schmidt, some investment banker she met at a function. Emma has a thing for bankers the way Erik has a predilection for pretty boys. It’s always been that way since their freshman days at UOL, and it’s not about to change anytime soon. “Anyway, what are you up to tonight?”

It’s been a week since that incident with the jogger, and Erik is unreasonably angry with himself for being haunted by those ridiculously kind blue eyes. “I might stay in,” he says curtly, as Emma raises an eyebrow at him.

There must have been something in his tone, because Emma shrugs and returns to her make-up, responding only with a careless _Suit yourself, sugar_ in Erik’s head.

***

Erik goes jogging over the next few mornings before he has to report for work. He feels like a complete bellend, hovering around Lambeth Bridge with a curled-up bottle in his hand and a reluctantly hopeful expression, looking out for a familiar face in a grey Under Armour tracksuit. His lungs are burning because he’s too used to sleeping in and avoiding physical exercise, but he figures he’s ready to get used to new things, different things.

On the fourth morning, he’s sitting on the steps along the bridge and playing with a few 20p coins, letting them spin lazily above his palm when he spots something grey coming along the Embankment. He sits up eagerly, taking in the surprise of the jogger when his gaze lands on Erik.

“Oh, hello!” the man says pleasantly.

Erik is ridiculously delighted to be remembered, holding out the bottle to the jogger. “I just wanted-- This is yours.” His heart is racing and his palms are sweaty, even though all he's done for the past three hours is to sit and simply wait, instead of jogging.

The jogger’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he takes the curled-up bottle from Erik’s offered palm. “Thank you,” he says softly.

“No, you-- What I meant is.” Erik stuffs his hands into his pockets, feeling for the iron rivets he keeps there and rubbing a thumb over them for reassurance. “That night, I wasn’t fine. Not really.” He has absolutely no idea why he is spilling all this to a stranger; he’s barely said this much to some of his colleagues he’s worked with for years.

The jogger looks at Erik keenly. “It’s no trouble at all, I promise.” He squeezes Erik’s arm. “I hope you’re better now.”

“Yes,” Erik says. “Please, let me thank you. With a cup of coffee.”

There’s a silence long enough that Erik’s starting to suspect he’s misread things, especially when the jogger says, "That would be nice, but..."

Erik's heart lurches. "Oh."

The man's red mouth curls in a disarming smile. “I mean, I don’t drink coffee. But tea would be good.”

Erik feels like someone has lit a lamp inside him. “Tea then,” he said, trying to hold back the broad grin unfurling on his face, and failing.

***

“I’m a mutant, you know,” Erik informs Charles, fiercely and proudly as he always does to anyone he meets the first time. It is a part of him as much as the Star of David around his neck, and it’s been a deal-breaker in previous relationships. He’s watching Charles for any signs of distress or revulsion, but Charles only nods.

“I know.” Charles shoots Erik a secretive smile. “I’m a Class 2 empath.”

 _A fellow mutant._ Not as powerful as Erik, admittedly, who is on a few government watchlists as one of the 208 Class 4 mutants living in the Greater London area, but a mutant nonetheless. Erik tries to hide his joy by biting his cheeks and keeping his focus on the rivets in his pocket. He wonders if Charles can sense the swirl of happiness and solidarity emanating from him.

From the way that addictive smile widens, maybe he can.

***

Charles is indeed 25, which doesn’t explain how he already has a Ph.D in genetics from Oxford. Erik is a little shocked to discover just how casual Charles is about his obvious brilliance, a mere stop during a conversation that involves London, Star Wars and the latest in mutant legislation. Erik is also guessing Charles has a trust fund somewhere, because he prefers going to pricey restaurants and gastropubs that are entirely out of Erik’s price range, but he always insists on paying. For once Erik doesn’t mind the clichéd expectation that he’s expected to put out if someone buys him dinner, but Charles keeps things remarkably - and frustratingly - chaste.

They go out again many times over a few weeks. Erik doesn’t go back to the gay village at Vauxhall, although the closest they come to it is when he accompanies Charles on his morning jogs that take them past Lambeth Bridge.

Charles doesn’t talk much about his work - he does something for research in genetics, and that’s the breadth of it - but he does talk about everything else. Charles talks about travelling across the Czech Republic by train one hot summer, so hot the train tracks had almost warped, and Charles talks about his sister Raven, who works in costume and make-up at the Venetian and lives with her girlfriend in Vegas. Erik is content to simply listen, basking in all of Charles’ words like a cat in the sun. Charles’ companionship is stimulating, fun. Even though Erik hasn’t had sex in a few months, it’s hard to mind when he’s the sole focus of Charles’ laserlike attention, when Charles lays a hand on his arm and leaves it there too long, when he catches Charles giving him a soft, sideways smile as they’re strolling around Camden Lock eating ice cream.

It’s pleasant but odd, to have someone after years of self-imposed solitude. He tells Charles exactly this one cold, foggy morning on Lambeth Bridge, and Charles says, “Erik, you’re not alone,” and kisses him sweetly.

***

“You’re happy,” Armando observes as he watches Erik slip on his favourite turtleneck, tugging down the hem before he throws on the leather bomber jacket he inherited from his father. “Are you high?”

For a minute Erik is tempted with the cheesiest of responses: ‘High on love? Yes.’ But he can’t quite imagine the horror on Armando’s face, and Erik does have a reputation to uphold after all. He’s the master of dry wit. “Fuck off,” he says instead, making Armando chuckle with delight.

“Yeah, definitely high,” Armando says as Alex emerges from the kitchen clutching a bowl to his chest, stirring something that looks red and spicy.

“What’s up? What did I miss?” Alex doesn’t wait for an answer before he turns hopefully to Erik. “Hey man, are you staying for supper? I cooked extra.”

Erik slicks his hair back with product, grimacing apologetically. “Sorry, I can’t.” And the regret is real this time. “Maybe tomorrow?”

Both Alex and Armando are exchanging wide-eyed looks. Alex says, “Uh sure, okay.”

Erik wonders if Charles will be available as well. “Can I bring someone?”

“Holy fuck,” Armando says dramatically, resting a hand against his forehead. “Someone check on the devil, I think Hell has officially frozen over.”

***

As it turns out, Armando and Alex are possibly far more infatuated with Charles than Erik is. Charles is his usual, charming, brilliant self and Erik likes the person he becomes when he’s with Charles: self-assured, fearless, daring. Their dingy little flat becomes a hotbed of sophisticated topics like Wagner’s arias (Erik has no idea Armando is a secret opera fan), the mutant refugee crisis in Guangdong and the latest mutant legislation amendment proposed by Senator Kelly.

“It’s already bad enough that we have to be registered. Where we live, where we work, what our powers are,” Alex grumbles, as Erik nods in agreement. “I don’t need to check in every other month so they know where I am.”

“It’s been progressively getting worse since that Flatbush Avenue hostage thing last year,” Armando says tiredly. “I mean, I get the need for higher security measures, but--”

“Don’t get me wrong, I have no disagreements whatsoever that it is a highly invasive set of laws,” Charles says. “But the privacy laws need to change if it means the government can start tracking terrorist cells that are moving and spreading faster than ever.”

Erik stares at Charles, taken aback. “So because of a few bad eggs, the rest of us need to pay the price? The cost of our liberty?”

“Now hold on, I see what Charles is getting at,” Armando says. “This mutant terrorism problem is getting worse, look at that Hellfire group. With a teleporter, they managed to hit 24 cities in a day.”

Charles’ mouth is a grim line. “Sebastian Shaw is the world’s most wanted terrorist. And most of the government agencies can’t even agree on what he looks like.”

“That’s just one man and his cronies. You’re not going to catch him by tightening the reins on mutants who are already toeing the line.” Maybe there’s something a little too sharp in Erik’s tone, because Charles sits back with a mightily distressed frown and Alex asks too brightly if anyone wants a drink.

After dinner Erik walks Charles back out to the street to get a cab. When they get one, Charles lingers at the open cab door. “I apologise for my tone earlier,” he says quietly. _But not what I said,_ goes unspoken.

Erik can feel the humming of the cab’s engine, reverberating all over its curved metal frame like a beloved song. It’s soothing. “I do as well,” Erik says. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Please do,” Charles says without hesitation and that in itself is an even better balm on Erik’s uneasy mood. They exchange a brief kiss before Charles climbs into the cab. Erik goes back up to the flat, pleased at how well dinner went. He pauses at the door to the flat, wondering why it feels like he's forgotten something. His keys? His phone? No, he can sense both of them in his pockets. A little troubled, Erik lets himself into the flat and nods to Armando and Alex, who are in the midst of cleaning up. They're both watching him warily, so he asks, "What?"

"You guys okay?" Armando looks rather worried for some reason.

"Charles is fine, I just sent him off in a cab." Erik heads to the fridge and helps himself to a beer. "You guys liked him, right?"

Alex is squinting the way he does when he's confused, but Armando gives him a quick shake of the head and says, "Charles was nice. We'll head to bed first, Erik."

"Night." Erik puts his feet up on the sofa, rubbing a knuckle against his temple and hoping the beer will relieve his slight headache soon.

***

They next meet for dinner amidst the frenetic rush of Covent Garden, at Charles' suggestion since he wants to try a new restaurant that just opened to much fanfare a few weeks ago. Erik doesn't like crowded, touristy places, but since things are going so well with Charles, he's willing to make an exception. The dinner with Armando and Alex went well, so Erik wants Charles to come around again. Charles is bright and cheerful as always, showing him photos of Raven’s latest show in Vegas on his phone. They’re surrounded by other couples in the restaurant, except for a man in a tweed suit who is engrossed in his paper. By the time dessert comes, someone has proposed and someone has accepted, to gentle cheers all around.

As they’re making their way towards Leicester Square, Charles is telling Erik about the most recent book he’d read when he suddenly frowns, then clears his throat.

“Anything wrong?” Erik asks, squeezing Charles’ hand.

Raising two fingers to his temple, Charles briefly closes his eyes before they flutter open again, soft and blue in the streetlights. “I’m fine. Come on, let’s keep walking.”

There’s a sudden commotion of raised voices behind them and Erik turns briefly to see the tweed man from the restaurant, standing stock still in the middle of the pavement, his expression completely perplexed as passers-by shout at him for blocking the way. “Twat!” someone yells as they shoulder him roughly and the man easily crumples to the ground, blinking in utter confusion as though he has forgotten how to walk.

“That was odd,” Erik says. Charles doesn’t even look back, his pace quickening as he drags Erik along to the tube station in front of them.

***

They give up on the tube halfway and step out to grab a black cab. Charles is quiet. So they hold hands in silence, Erik staring at Charles’ profile in the darkness of the cab and wondering if he can sense how Erik feels. Erik doesn’t know any other empaths, and once Emma heard of Charles’ mutation, she insisted on meeting him. (“Not for a duel,” she promised Erik, although Erik knows better). Which is why it’s always been a relief that Charles and Emma have never quite met, and Erik likes to keep it that way. He can only imagine how happy Emma will be to tear Charles to utter shreds, and it will be up to Erik to put him back together again.

Once they’re back in Chelsea, they retire to the master bedroom and curl up in bed together, sharing a bottle of Chardonnay and watching some superhero movie on Charles’ laptop. Erik is drunk and happy, and Charles keeps leaning into him throughout the night, placing hot, unexpected kisses on Erik’s neck.

When the movie finishes, Erik turns to Charles and kisses him deep and slow, dipping a hand under Charles’ shirt. Charles shivers as Erik’s thumb brushes his nipple, mouth falling open as Erik’s mouth moves down to suck on the curve of his throat. “I’ve never--I’ve--” Charles gasps out.

Erik pulls back a little, eyebrows raised. “You’ve never been with a man before?” he asks gently. It’s a suspicion he’s been harbouring, due to Charles’ reticence over the past six months.

“No.” Charles’ eyes dart down, his eyelashes dark against his cheek. “I’ve slept with men before. I’ve never been with anyone I loved before.” There’s something unbearably naked in his voice that makes Erik’s eyes burn, because of how much it’s costing Charles to say it.

“I do know, what you mean. It’s different when it’s with someone special.” Erik’s forehead presses against Charles’, and Erik feels like he can hear every single worry and panicked though flitting through Charles’ mind.

“I’ve never let myself get close to someone like this before,” Charles whispers, even though they’re in the flat alone. “I never even let myself try.” He meets Erik’s eyes, and although they’re a sea of calm, Erik can feel Charles shaking beneath him. “I’d like to try again.”

Erik kisses Charles again and again, kisses him until he stops shaking, until his gasps ring with pleasure instead of surprise. They move fluidly, in one mind and one body, and Erik gives more of himself than he’s ever given anyone, and when Charles sighs out Erik’s name, he comes so hard and long that he blinks away tears, holding Charles tightly in his grip so he can never disappear.

***

Erik doesn’t hear from Charles over the next week, worried out of his mind over unanswered phone calls and texts. By the third day, he’s desperate enough to turn up at Charles’ flat, wondering if something has happened to him. After twenty minutes of futile knocking, Erik makes up his mind to put his power to use and break into the apartment. If Charles gets angry at the breach of privacy, they can always argue it out later. Erik will never quite forgive himself if Charles is hurt and Erik was too late. But the apartment is exactly as Charles left it. The sight of the empty Chardonnay bottle on the bedside table brings an unexpected lump to Charles’ throat. After a fruitless search, Erik arms the system again and locks up, making his mind to return again and again.

Repeated visits reveal nothing new. There is really no explanation, no word from Charles. Erik is mortified to realise that in the brief time of their whirlwind relationship, he doesn't know any of Charles' friends and family, except for Raven who he doesn’t even know how to get in touch with and check if Charles is okay. Charles had kept himself so carefully hidden, so receptive of Erik's secrets and yet revealing none of his own.

He’s too depressed to hit the clubs at Vauxhall so he hangs out at Emma’s place, a safe respite from Armando’s and Alex’s smothering concern. Emma knows better than to say anything, but Erik isn’t oblivious to her sharp, sideways looks of curiosity and sympathy. She's offered to get him a private detective, but Erik refuses her help. He can do this on his own.

When Erik finally feels better enough to leave Emma's refuge and return to the Peckham flat, there’s a thick envelope waiting for him on the small table beside the door where Armando keeps the keys. It’s postmarked Las Vegas, USA. When Erik opens it with shaking hands, there is a smaller envelope inside, along with a short note in neat, cursive writing:

_  
We never got to meet, but I thought you would want to know. Charles told me how much you meant to him. The car accident happened last week. I’m sorry._

_Raven.  
_

  
Erik wants to throw up. He wants to run to the bathroom and throw up and crush every single piece of metal in the vicinity of Peckham. After a few, shaky breaths, he dares to open the smaller sealed envelope. The letterhead is from Drummond and Smith Solicitors LLP.

_  
NOTICE OF DEATH_

_Dear Mr. Lehnsherr,_

_You are hereby notified about the passing of Dr. Charles F. Xavier. The funeral arrangements are as below. Do kindly contact us if you have any further questions regarding arrangements that have been made for the estate._

_Sincerely, Albert Drummond LLP._

  
Letting the notice flutter to the ground, a dazed Erik looks around the empty apartment. He only hesitates a little before making a pulling motion with his hand. A little steel box comes flying out of his room. He opens the box, tipping its contents into his hands as he slumps down heavily into the sofa. _Do not think. Do not think. I don't want to think._

Erik stares at the little white pills in his hand. He was wrong to think it could have ever been different.

***

It is that time of the night when Erik dies a little inside.

He's walking down Charles' street after work, looking up at the windows of his apartment on the fourth floor, the windows completely shuttered. He remembers making love to Charles for the first time there, remembers the way Charles gazed at him and said, "I'd like to try again." Erik would have tried, so hard, for Charles. Now he's almost glad he hadn't, because there's nothing else that stops him feeling like he's dead inside, like he's something broken and everyone around him can see the cracks.

Lighting a cigarette, Erik takes a deep drag as smoke wafts out of his nose. He doesn't move for a long time, at least until a constable comes along and asks him to leave because he's making the other residents nervous.

Erik walks away without looking back.

***

"You honestly think it's better this way," Moira says with a sigh. She has that exasperated tone of someone who's brought up the same argument many times.

Charles watches Erik's lone figure stroll down the street, blowing out a stream of cigarette smoke which is visible even on the grainy security footage. He isn't expecting to feel like someone has just gouged a wound that has barely scabbed over. "It's better for him," Charles finally says. He has already glimpsed so much agony in the depths of Erik's mind, mired in anger and loneliness and fear. This is all Charles' fault. He should have never gotten involved, he should have left before he got in too deep with Erik, who has his own demons to deal with.

Spooks, people call them. Charles lets out a bitter snort. _Am I his ghost?_

"You frighten me." Moira is eyeing him a little warily. "I couldn't just...let go like that. Or faked my own death. I thought that was something they only did in spy movies."

"We're not spies," Charles says a little sharply. His work as a Class 4 telepath for the MI6 is so much more complicated than mere espionage. He protects the world from the likes of Sebastian Shaw, and he's given up a lot to do it. Besides, he's been pretending to be someone else all his life. Being with Erik was the first time he'd ever felt like the person he remembers he was.

“It was for the best,” Moira says, and Charles isn’t sure if she is trying to convince him or herself. “He’s already too close to Frost, and with her connection with Shaw and with Erik’s anti-government beliefs, it was really only a matter of time.” And Moira is right; Charles still remembers the near brush with that agent in Covent Garden. His bosses have _definitely_ started taking notice of Erik.

“Erik won’t become a terrorist,” Charles says firmly. “There’s good in him, I felt it. And if it means parting ways with him so that our superiors don’t start taking notice of Erik and poking into his file, then it’s a sacrifice I have to make.”

“You’re not going to…” Moira trails off meaningfully, wiggling her fingers in front of her temple with her eyebrows raised.

Charles doesn’t say anything. Of course the thought has crossed his mind; it would be the easiest thing to make Erik forget everything between them, to grant him the ignorance of bliss. But every time Charles makes up his mind to do so, something always stays his hand. He can’t bear to remove the bright sparks of memories Erik has of them over the past six months, not when Erik has so little brightness to cling to already. There’s Erik’s mother singing, and there’s Erik celebrating Yom Kippur with her, and there’s Charles telling Erik, _I’d like to try again_. He still means every word.

They watch Erik for a while, and Moira says, "Come on, we should go." She leaves first, and Charles stares sadly at the monitor before flicking off the switch for the video feed.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>   
>   
>  There is an implied Major Character Death in this fic which may or may not be fictitious, so I thought I would choose not to warn. I did think about tagging MCD at first, but it would have misled those who searched for this tag.


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